On Knowing

Wordsworth said it well:  “Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark. And shares the nature of infinity.”

It seems, ofttimes, that even amidst the greatest joy and gladness there is an element of suffering in each and every day that passes. But where does this suffering stem from?

Hypobole, and Then Some

This afternoon I received a letter. I looked at the envelope, it was addressed to me in a shaky hand with uneven strokes and, apparently, a pen on the verge of running out of ink.

Curious.

There was no return address... but the postmark was from my hometown. Initially I panicked, thinking it was from one of my family members, but no. The handwriting was all wrong.

Curiouser.

I turned it over and noticed it was sealed with a wax seal bearing the letter "Z." Uh-oh. The Socialist's grandmother is the only person in my past who always, ALWAYS sends her letters with that stamp.

Curiouser and Curiouser indeed.